


Epilogue

by MorningBlueRose



Category: True Blood
Genre: Don't befriend wolves', M/M, Pastoral, Retirement, Russell drives like my grandpa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorningBlueRose/pseuds/MorningBlueRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve doesn't really enjoy his life until after he's undead. It just figures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epilogue

Hong Kong is....different.

 

Not to say Hong Kong isn't beautiful, but it was a different kind of beautiful. China is huge and _packed;_ and even though it's for the most part modernized (there's _huge_ buildings everywhere), there's still a presence there, of something ancient and powerful and forgotten. Banners hang low and so do the lanterns, and they glow a shade of red so vibrant it almost hums in the breeze. Unfortunately, there are very few Asian men with British accents, and only a handful who are decent masseuses, (Russell admits that the last time he'd visited Hong Kong was before you were even born). You aren't used to big cities, but then again neither are the people who live there: they had become so rich so suddenly that they had no idea how to _be_ rich. It was a treat, visiting clubs and going to parties where all these rich people spent all their money trying to impress people they had just met, and would never meet again. Russell calls it “conspicuous consumption”, which you think are just big fancy words for greedy, stuck up bastards. Russell also says Hong Kong looks almost exactly like New York City, and you have to take his word for it because you've never been-

 

(and never will)

 

and you're okay with that, and so is Russell because he  _hates_ the city. He tells you so, as you're strolling down the red light district, (the both of you having fed on some  _very_ aggressive gentleman who had assumed you'd been a hooker), that he hates the filth, the people, the markets, the noise; just about everything that makes a city. You feel full and free, and you ask him where he wants to go.

 

He takes you to the countryside.

 

You've never seen him like this before. Russell is always charming and seemingly at ease, even when his every word is dripping with disdain, but even at his most calm, there always seemed to be a small thread shooting straight up his spine, and he never dropped his shoulders and shrugged it off. It was always there, and he was always one comment or one gesture from ripping someone's throat out. Here, in the countryside, it's like he's a completely different person. He tells you funny Aesops, warns you which branches have thorns, which leaves are poisonous, and how to tell if something is tracking you. He meditates under the stars, goes foraging, hunts wildlife...and as you watch him and clumsily join in, it occurs to you that this is Russell with his guard down. He's in his element, and this is where he's meant to be. 

 

In a bed in a vacant home (well, it's vacant  _now)_ , you make love, and he is gentle and kind yet  _savage_ , whispering in your ear some guttural language you're sure doesn't exist anymore as his hips thrust against your backside, the sound of rhythmic clapping echoing in the room. It's  _so fucking good_ , and in this position you take him inside of you the deepest, but even after he  _destroys you_ , even after drool spills from your lips and your toes have curled so much they've started to cramp, afterward it all leaves an empty taste in your mouth, and then that self-conscious part of you wonders if someone else's face (whose name is never mentioned) is on his mind, and you're just a convenient hole, a breathing cock sleeve for his use. If your self-worth had stock, it would have crashed by now.

 

By the time his thrusts become staccato, and it's more reflex then method, he always gasps, like he's been holding his breath the whole time, and you can feel his erection throb and spasm inside of you, something  _scalding_ spilling so far into you some nights you can almost taste it. He crumbles on top of you, rolls over, and laughs weakly, making some comment that's somehow both lewd and flattering. Always, he sits up against the headboard, and always, he just stares off into the distance. Tonight is no different. You want it to be.

 

“Why don't you ever talk about him?” you ask, and the guilt and fear creeps up on you, as if it was just waiting on you to ask something stupid. The silence becomes too much to bear. “I'm sorry-”

 

His body tenses, and he seems taken aback. “Well, I'm not sure how  _you_ were raised, but where I came from it's a little rude to discuss former lovers  _mid coitus_ .”

 

“That's not what I meant. You _know_ that's not what I meant.”

 

“I know what you meant,” says Russell, and his body, while still clenched, sinks further into the futon. “It's just not a pleasant conversation. I fell in love with someone, had an open marriage, and they got murdered for their trouble and had their remains shredded in a kitchen appliance. It's all very Greek and tragic, and I'd rather not bring it up again, if that's alright with you.”

 

It's a sore topic, so you won't. Still... “Can I ask you a question?”

 

Russell sighs deeply into the cot, and you can tell he's at the end of his rope. “Whatever it is, the answer is yes, all right? Yes yes and  _yes,_ all right, now just go to  _sleep_ , Steven, all right?”

 

“All right,” you say, and press closer to where his heart would be, and you wonder what it must have been like to feel it beating against your cheek. “All right,” you say, and sleep begins to take you. “I love you too.”

 

For a moment before you slip away, you can swear you feel lips press against your cheek.

 

Time flies by, and while Russell still hunts and climbs and forages with a childish glee you didn't think him capable of, you can tell he's becoming restless. So are you, but you already made your choice that night, didn't you, and you'll follow him anywhere. You ask where he's always wanted to go, but never got around to it. Russell just laughs at you.

 

“I am older than most _countries_ , sweetheart,” he reminds you, shaking his head. “It's not a question of where I haven't been; its a question of what wasn't around when _I_ was.” But you can tell he's contemplating something, and two weeks later he gives you an answer.

 

You book a flight to Ireland the following night, and thank goodness because your Chinese is  _horrible._

 

You also book a car, because it's been a while since you've ridden in one, and becoming a supernatural homicidal creature has really made you appreciate privacy in a way you never have before. Russell just stares at the car like it's something he's never seen before.

 

“Where's the driver?”

 

“Russell, honey; we _are_ the drivers. Here, take the keys-”

But Russell is staring at the keys in your hand with the strangest look on his face, and then something hilarious suddenly occurs to you.

 

“Oh. My God.”

 

“Not one word.”

 

“Oh my God,” and you can't stop the laughter that barks from your throat. You sound like a seal, and people are probably staring but you don't care because _Russell never learned to drive_.

 

“Are you _quite done_ ,” He hisses, throwing your bags in the backseat and slamming the door in a fit. “Or are you-”

 

You're not even listening anymore, because this is too funny. You're still chuckling as you pull away from the curb, while Russell sits in the passenger seat and  _pouts_ like an angry teenager.

 

“How is it possible that in three thousand-”

 

“Two thousand, eight hundred and eighty six. Don't make me older than I already am, dear.”

 

“All right, in more than two thousand years have you not learned to drive yet? Didn't someone ever teach you, or-”

 

Russell is scowling now, and it only makes you laugh harder. “There's not really a fucking need to drive if you're faster than anything made by fucking  _Ford_ .” He spits out the name like it's a curse.

 

You offer to teach him, and a few miles of whining and pleading and he gives in. It never ceases to put a smile on your face that you've got this ancient and terrible sociopathic monster wrapped around your little finger. It's kind of an ego boost. Russell gets the hang of it soon enough, but he drives so slow that you're holding up traffic for half a mile, and the honking is starting to get on your nerves.

 

“Honey, the speed limit is 60-”

 

“I _know_ what the speed limit is, _darling_ , and I don't trust this hunk of junk to go faster than 50 without breaking down. Trust me; I know what I'm doing.”

 

To your right is a man riding a bicycle. He passes you in less than a minute. “Russell, sweetie-”

 

“ _Steven_. I am _handling_ it.”

 

“Would you like me to-”

 

“No,” Russell says through clenched teeth, hands tightly gripped to the wheel. “That will not be necessa- Fucking _A,_ if they do not stop with that incessant _honking_ I am going to-”

 

You never find out what he says he's going to do, because right then a car that has been tailgating you for twenty minutes slams into the back of the rental car, and before Steve knows it, Russell has already killed twenty people and working on twenty one. They barely get their bags out of the car before the cops come, and you both can barely check into the hotel without cracking up. You walk into the room, and your good cheer is ruined when Russell stares disbelievingly at the windows that have no blinds.

 

You steal another cottage. You're getting to be pretty good at it.

 

You tell the villagers nearby when they stop by for an impromptu visit that night that the previous owners won the lottery and sold the house to you recently, and you can tell none of them believe you, and you'd sell the story a little bit better if Russell wasn't standing behind you at the door playing grab-ass, and you slam the door with a choked good-night.

 

“Thanks a lot, David Coppafeel. If they show up at three in the morning with stakes and wooden torches I'm throwing you out there first-”

 

“Oh?” His hands are touching places that probably have your father _rolling_ in his grave. “And what makes you think they wouldn't kill you first?”

 

“What, are you kidding? Look at me, I'm adorable- _Ohh_ , _baby_ -”

 

Russell is nibbling at your neck, and you can feel him smiling against your collarbone. “Let them come. I'm  _starving_ anyway.”

 

You're hungry too, but a different kind, and you both fall asleep on the kitchen table and you wake up alone and sore in the bedroom. It's dusk, and time to eat, and really, that's all you care about right now.

 

On the way back from the village- (there are scratches on Russell's arms from that horny bitch, and you wish that you would kill her again, but slower and you also wish that Russell would stop smiling so fucking  _smugly_ ) when something knocks you down from behind, and the wind is rushed out of you. You catch a glimpse of Russell's face as sharp teeth drag you away, and it's so  _murderous_ a part of you that's not actively trying to survive is taken aback. It's been so long since you've seen Russell truly angry that it frightens even you. 

 

The culprit, who is currently nibbling on your leg, is what appears to be a wolf. It  _appears_ to be a wolf because no dog could possibly be as big as this fucking behemoth crushing your fibula between his jaws. Russell comes in about a half a second later, about to crush it's throat when you get a good look at the creature's eyes.

 

It's starving, and boy, does Steve know what  _that's_ like.

 

“Russell, wait!”

 

Russell stares at the beast, still chomping away, and looks at you with what can only be utter confusion. “I'm sorry-  _what_ ?”

 

“The poor thing-ow- he's just hungry, that's all- okay, _ow_ \- He's just trying to get a meal, same as us, don't hurt him- _Jesus Christ MotherFUCKER THAT HURTS_ \- Well, don't just _stand_ there, Russell, get him off me-”

 

You can hear Russell mumble something under his breath about you, but he's getting the damn dog off your leg, so you're willing to let it slide. You suppose the dog makes something like a whining noise, but it sounds more like an angry jackhammer than anything else. Sit, commands Russell, and the fucking thing  _does._

 

Russell keeps the wolf. He names it Fang. It  _hates_ you.

 

More specifically, it hates that Russell likes  _you._ If Fang is in the room when Russell kisses you on the cheek, it growls until he pulls away. If Fang is napping on the sofa and Russell drops to his knees and sucks you until his lips reach the hilt, it wakes up, walks away, and pisses in your shoes. God forbid that little fucker ever walks into a room when Russell is fucking you against the wall, your legs spread and wrapped around him, one hand pulling his hair and the other trying desperately to keep balance, because it snaps at your junk, (One time the fucker  _bit you on the ass_ ) and Russell says it's just being protective and it's not his fault he's good with animals and doesn't this make up for the one we had to give back and seriously darling, one little nibble and suddenly you're not in the mood anymore what's wrong? 

One particular evening when Russell is off doing god knows what, (but he better not be fucking because that shit may have flown with Russell's ex-husband but you are not gonna be a cuckold for the second time in this lifetime thank you very much) You decide that now would be a good time to harvest beets or radishes or whatever the fuck Russell grows and you hear something  _growl._

 

It's not Fang, because whenever Russell isn't around it's like you don't exist, and you're embarrassed to say this later on, but you figured nothing would be dumb enough to mess with a vampire, but boy are you wrong. Because your back is turned, you don't see the fucking bear swipe at you, and it gets a good chunk of your face along with it. You touch your skin, and with a horrifying calmness you realize you're missing an eyeball and you can feel bone. You're about to  _kill_ that fucking thing-

 

-when Fang leaps from the porch and begins tearing the fuck out of it. He's snarling, lips curled and teeth erect, biting and clawing and fighting like the bear isn't six times his size, and Fang is pretty fucking big. Eventually it's to the point where you can't even see (at least not with one shitty eye) where the bear began and Fang ended. You take a chance and break that fucker's neck, but with one last spasm the bear sends Fang flying off, back first into a tree.

 

You kill the damn thing quickly, but the damage is done. Fang is convulsing, eyes open with a primal sort of fear that makes your heart clench, and you wonder what you're going to say to Russell and then you hear a twig snap and Russell is right there, staring. His eyes stare blankly at the carnage, and he shuffles, leg by leg over to where Fang is lying, and then sort of drops unto the floor. His lips are trembling faintly, and he (ever so gently) holds Fang in his lap, but says nothing.

 

Fang is dying, gasping and shaking in Russell's arms, and he's sitting perfectly still, but the panic and the dismay is right there, written on his shuddering face in black and white, and with a terrible lurch in your stomach you realize that Russell cannot love something with half of his heart. When Russell loves someone, it is with a terrible, gut-wrenching grasp, and it squeezes and squeezes at him until it develops into part of him, something beautiful and sick, until there is no more Fang, and no more Talbot and no more Steve Newlin, but just parts of Russell himself, like arms and legs that have been cut off but the pain still remains. The people Russell Edgington has loved and lost are phantom pains that stretch into forever, and that is and always will be the way things are,

 

Now you know why he won't speak of Talbot, or why he never says those words to you. It is a clinging, grieving desperation, a foolhardy way to mourn, and it  _is_ mourning; a loss so deep it cuts to the core of you, until there can be no mourning, because you have not lost a person but truly a part of yourself, and there is no mourning  _deep enough_ , no anguish  _whole enough_ to begin to describe that loss, that  _emptiness._ It is torturous, it is horrifying, but most of all it is  _human_ . Russell Edgington has lived for almost three thousand years, and in that small man's body he holds three thousand years of  _life_ and  _death_ , and suddenly you feel a lot younger and a lot older than you really are. Without thinking you wrap your arms around him, and for his sake pretend you don't feel him shuddering. He does not cry. Sometimes you think there aren't any tears left in Russell for him to do so.

 

Fang lives, but barely. He's half blind from the fever that ensued, but no less meaner. It's two weeks of bumping into furniture and falling down hills and missing the doggie door, until he finally shuffles along with his head held high. He's not any nicer to you either but at least he's stopped growling at you and he looks at you with what seems like begrudged acceptance. You can almost hear him thinking, 'Just because I almost died and you saved my life doesn't mean we're  _friends_ or anything, you little shit.'

 

It's a quiet life now. It's almost never sunny out, so you can head outside for maybe fifteen minutes without any serious injury. (Russel for only two, and then he breaks out in rashes and it takes all day to peel the dead skin off, and you love him to death but  _ew_ ,  _gross_ ). For the most part Russell works on his garden and scaring the local villagers because fuck; they have to eat and it's pretty fun to see them running around like chickens with their heads cut off. You're writing your book-

 

“There Are Hemophiliacs in Heaven: How To Let Jesus into Your Heart and Blood into Your Body- oh come now, Steve; are you _still on about_ -”

 

“Just because I frequently engage in homicidal tendencies does not mean the Good Lord doesn't have a place for me in heaven, Russell.” You inform him, ignoring that stupid smug look on his face. Just once you'd like to tell him that no one _cares_ if he met Jesus, and you have the sneaking suspicion he was one of the Roman guards who crucified him, but either he wasn't or he was and he knows better than to bring that up. “Now what's another word for 'repent'?”

 

“Live with Katie Couric?” he offers, and you throw a dirty dishrag at him, and he laughs and laughs and laughs. It's the best sound in the world. 

 

The book is almost finished, and with a quiet confidence, you're sure it'll change things; get your name out there again, get the people to trust you, and put the word out there, that if the frightened sheep that make up the human race ever need a competent herder, well, you both will still be here, waiting for an eternity.

 

Russell suddenly bends the computer chair backwards for an upside down kiss, and with a calm you can't explain, you begin to think that eternity is not long enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I know they're probably killing them off, but this is how I want the season to end goddamn it, so leave me alone. :(


End file.
